


Miscalculation

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, F/F, Happy Ending, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9960275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She had calculated this night in her mind too many times to count, she and John would be miraculously reunited, they would return to 221b, Mrs. Hudson would cry, she would hug Sherlock too hard, just like John had done earlier, and then the two of them would go upstairs.





	

Shaky breath, teeth clenched, white hot tears, choked sob, and Sherlock slams the door.

The heavy enforced metal door of the hotel room, not the solid wood door to 221b, not the door she should be closing right now.

She had calculated this night in her mind too many times to count, she and John would be miraculously reunited, they would return to 221b, Mrs. Hudson would cry, she would hug Sherlock too hard, just like John had done earlier, and then the two of them would go upstairs. What happens next is where things always get a little murky, sometimes John would lead them to her room, Sherlock’s room, the couch, anywhere really, and kiss her, soft and sweetly, like a promise finally being fulfilled. Other times she wouldn’t wait for them to go anywhere, she would push Sherlock up against the door before it was even fully closed, press her body against Sherlock’s until they were touching from toe to mouth. She would kiss her, hungry and primal, like she is finally getting what’s hers and been kept from her for too long. Either way they would end up in bed, sometimes clothed, other times not, but either way curled up and facing each other, sharing the space, sharing body heat, looking at each other and knowing that all was well for once.

Sherlock should have known better than to try and calculate something to do with John Watson.

John Watson, _John_ , John who wouldn’t listen to her, who didn’t fall into her arms, who left her lip split open like the still fresh wounds across her back, who most definitely did not, and never will kiss her. Not softly, sweetly, hungry, or primal, never anything.

Sherlock has never felt a failure more palpable and horrid than this, had never been this wrong and blind. Had she misread every interaction between them in the years they were together? Had her years apart morphed them into something entirely fictional so she would have something to cling to and keep herself alive?

John wasn’t supposed to do this, not move out, not move on, not anything.

John was supposed to _know,_ she was supposed to understand and wait and know that when Sherlock came back it would be for her. Only ever for her, always for her, nothing that wasn’t planned with the one end goal of John Watson’s life and happiness. She was supposed to take one look at her and know, the way Sherlock does, she was supposed to see the desperation in her once short hair that now reaches the bottom of her ribcage, supposed to see the struggle in her much too pale skin, and most of all see the endless, torturous, love in very inch of her body. John was supposed to see how Sherlock had taken herself apart and rebuilt herself for John. She would gently wash blood from the still healing wounds on her back and know that it was all for her. The dark red would swirl down the drain and so would every doubt and insecurity that kept them apart, it would be gone and all that would be left is the two of them, shining brilliantly together.

Of course Sherlock would have explained everything eventually, as she tried to, but John wasn’t supposed to doubt her for a moment.

And that’s what it’s come down to, doubt.

It takes a minute for the shock of all her emotions being felt at once to wear off, but once it does Sherlock looks up from where she had thrown herself, she is curled into the corner of the entryway, between the heavy door and the bathroom, and when she looks up she catches a startling glimpse of herself.

She looks so small, so broken, curly hair windblown, lip split and chin covered in blood and tears, bony hands clasped in front of her knees, all in all an embarrassing display of helplessness.

“I’m so _stupid_.” Sherlock says to her own reflection, feeling the sentiment deep in her bones.

Another sob makes its way out of her mouth at the sound of her own voice and she tries to stand up.

Her malnourished body aches and her legs tremble from the movement and the emotion. As she straightens herself she feels the pull of her white shirt on her back where the blood must have congealed itself between it and her skin.

She wants to sleep, to forget this day if only for a few hours, to maybe wake up in other world where things are the way they should be and John is not a distant dream. She wants all of this, but she knows what she needs is a shower, one to calm her nerves and relax her body, to slough off the grime of the day.

So that’s what she does. She peels her bloodstained shirt off as gently as possible and still lets out a hiss at the pull of newly formed scabs, she rubs a soft white washcloth over her face, not checking to see if her makeup is fully removed, she watches the water turn red, then clear, wrings out her hair and rubs her undamaged skin raw with soap and washes it all off with too hot water.

It’s been a while since Sherlock has cared about her body, but the abrupt change in her world view John cast upon her today is enough to make her wonder. Wonder if there is something wrong with her physically that repels John from her. She knows she’s not beautiful, her face is too sharp and she’s too tall, with mannish feet and hands, and right now her ribs are visible little things, poking out from under her thin skin. She’s not beautiful, but she’s alright, with makeup and the right length of skirt she can get almost anything she wants from a security guard or underpaid office clerk. But that sort of thing shouldn’t matter to John, she’s never been particularly vain in her choice of partner.

So no, it must not be that. It must be something else, anything else, maybe everything else, and Sherlock had been too blinded by her own feelings that she hadn’t thought to ask if she was correct. In her mind there was a carefully planned schedule they were on. Since the pool Sherlock knew that in order to live her life according to that plan she had to take out Moriarty. Once that was done she and John could be together. Until then though she was fine with John doing as she pleased, dating other men and women, pretending they were nothing but friends, it was all worth it to keep her safe and happy until they could finally be safe and happy together. The fall wasn’t meant to be part of that plan, but it became so out of necessity.

Necessary for the ending Sherlock thought they both knew was coming.

She _thought_ they both knew.

It shouldn’t, but it hurts more that Mary’s a woman, when it came to men they were always disposable, never treated John like the amazing, beautiful, breathtaking creature she was. Never loved her for how smart and brave and strong she was. Sherlock wonders if Mary does. If Mary knows exactly who she holds in her arms, knows how desperately Sherlock wants more than anything to do the same. That last part she probably does, anyone with working eyes in that restaurant does. She might have been a tad over obvious with that, but the confusion made her break character a little earlier than planned.

Sherlock wants to hate John, to hate Mary, wants to hate anyone but herself, but even the thought makes her stomach churn.

She can’t hate John, never John. Not John who came into her life with such intensity that she can hardly remember life before then, though there was much more of it. When reminiscing it feels like everything before then was just in greyscale, not real, and life after John was in screaming Technicolor. Real, and lovely, and true.

She can’t even really hate Mary, who, although she was hiding something important, promised she would try and get John to come around. Sherlock couldn’t hate the only person who had given her hope today, the person who was keeping John happy while she was gone.

The person who would keep John happy for Sherlock for the rest of her life.

The person John choose to keep herself happy.

Sherlock could never hate them.

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter will take place during the stag night, I promise it will be a happy ending!


End file.
